Missing
by Wollemia nobilis
Summary: After his disappearance two days earlier, John finds Sherlock lying on their bathroom floor. He is unable to speak, diagnosed with a worse than normal concussion. John takes care of him at Baker Street, hoping that he will fully recover, and wondering about their relationship.
1. Wednesday

**Chapter 1: Wednesday**

 **Note:** I don't own any of the characters from the Sherlock BBC television series, nor any of the characters created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

 **Disclaimer: This is a fictional story! I am not a doctor or neurologist, nor have medical training! Should a real-life doctor recommend that you or a loved one get a CT scan, of course do consider it!**

 **Trigger warning:** Please don't read if you find the following disturbing or triggering: At about two thirds through this chapter, John wonders briefly whether Sherlock was violated. He finds that he was not!

* * *

 _Wednesday:_

Sherlock disappeared while investigating a case two days ago. It was a 4 only, he had said, but he had been bored. John had to work that day, so was not along. When Sherlock did not return that evening, he began to worry, eventually later called Mycroft. So far, there has been no call, no text, no ransom demand, no trace. Sherlock was last seen on CCTV entering a tube station, which had to be evacuated an hour later due to an electrical fire. Neither Mycroft, nor Scotland Yard, nor the best canine/handler team, nor the homeless network have been able to find him.

John has stayed home from work, to be available immediately should there be any contact. He has blamed himself that he did not accompany his friend that day. He spent the past 10 minutes with Ms. Hudson downstairs, reassuring her that they are still looking for Sherlock, they have not given up hope yet. She has made him a cup of tea, which he drank, then gave him some scones, for Sherlock, to take upstairs, should he show up.

John is walking the stairs back up to 221B when he notices their apartment door slightly ajar. Wondering whether maybe he had not closed it properly, he deposits the scones on the kitchen table. He gets a strange feeling, like he is not alone in the apartment, goes to investigate. The bathroom door is also slightly ajar, the sound of the tap running can be heard. Looking inside, he sees Sherlock lying on his right side, back to the door, on the floor, his head rests on his discarded coat. John rushes around him, kneels down in front of him.

"Sherlock, are you alright?!" His immense relief to find Sherlock back at Baker Street is curbed by Sherlock's unfocused gaze and look of exhaustion. There's a 3 cm long deep cut above his left ear, the blood has dried already.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?" John asks taking his friend's pulse. It is steady, but a bit fast. There is no reply. Sherlock's lips are quite dry and cracked, his skin looks a tinge grey.

John gets up to fetch some water from the sink, to give it to Sherlock in a tumbler. The tap is still running, there's vomit in the sink, mostly bile, apparently Sherlock had not eaten much. He notices the toilet lid is up, there's darker pee, a little stool and some toilet paper in the bowl. Apparently Sherlock had used the toilet but did not flush.

John puts the toilet lid down, flushes, washes his hand, rinses the sink, fills the tumbler, returns with the water to Sherlock.

"Here's some water," he offers, crouching down. "Can you sit up?" Sherlock does not move or comment. John puts the tumbler on the floor, then manages to get Sherlock to sit up.

"Here, you need to drink some, _please_ ," he insists. "You're probably a bit dehydrated." Since Sherlock only props his head on his hands and closes his eyes, John shakes his shoulder and puts the tumbler to his lips. " _Drink!_ " His voice sounds commanding.

Sherlock blinks his eyes open, looks at John. Though his face remains impassive he drinks, slowly emptying the tumbler.

"Thank you," John says when he is finished, noticing that one of Sherlock's pupils is slightly more dilated than the other. "Lie back down. Here," John helps Sherlock lie back down. "I'm calling an ambulance." When Sherlock does not protest or respond 'Don't be ridiculous, John, it's nothing, a scratch on the side of my head, come on, you know I hate hospitals!' like he normally would, John adds "Right," and gets up.

Running his hand over the top of his head, he retrieves his phone from the holster on his belt, dials 111. "I don't think it's an emergency," he adds after giving their address and explaining the circumstances, "but I don't want to take any chances should his condition worsen."

"You're doing the right thing, sir," the dispatcher reassures him. "We'll send an ambulance. Paramedics should be there shortly."

Sitting down on the floor in the bathroom, resting his back on the tub, next, John calls Mycroft.

"Mycroft, Sherlock showed up like five minutes ago! Found him lying down in the bathroom. He's conscious but does not speak. Has a cut over his left ear. Am taking him to hospital to have him checked out," he rushes through the details telegraph style.

"Thank you for letting me know, John." Mycroft's relief that his brother has been found is evident in his voice. "Is there anything I can do to help?" he asks.

"Not really. I hope it's only dehydration and a concussion, not something more serious. Can you please call Lestrade and someone from the homeless network, let them know Sherlock's back?"

"I will."

"Ta! We'll be in touch." John disconnects, then calls Ms. Hudson, explains the circumstances. He'd rather she not see Sherlock like this, he knows she would be worried.

"We'll just take him downstairs when the paramedics are here, get him checked out at hospital, then probably come back to Baker Street later. Don't worry!" he tries to reassure her, holding the phone a little distance from his ear when her "Oh, dear, poor Sherlock..." gets too loud. "You'll probably hear us coming back. It'll be fine, Ms. Hudson." He shakes his head, disconnects, puts the phone back in the holster.

John kept an eye on Sherlock while making his phone calls. His breathing is steady, one could think that he is sleeping, just resting. John kneels down beside Sherlock to take his pulse again. It is still steady and a bit fast. He does not know what to make of Sherlock's quietness.

After a few minutes, the doorbell rings. Because this call was deemed not an emergency, the paramedics arrived without sirens. John lets them in, brings them to the bathroom.

"Found him like this. I gave him some water. There was vomit in the sink. His pee in the toilet was darker. See the cut there above his left ear," John points out. One of the paramedics takes notes, while the other tends to Sherlock, tries to get his attention, takes his blood pressure and pulse.

"Mr. Holmes, can you hear me?" He shakes Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock opens his eyes, but does not look at the paramedic, he does not respond.

"Can you tell us what happened to you?" also goes unanswered. The paramedic sighs. "Alright. - Tim," he addresses his colleague, "give me a hand." The other medic comes over to assist. "We'll take you downstairs to the ambulance and to hospital, to be evaluated, Mr. Holmes," he informs Sherlock of what is going to happen.

There is no response from Sherlock, so the paramedics, one on each side, proceed to get him up. After having been lying on the floor, standing up seems to cause his blood pressure to drop briefly, he sags, but then recovers.

"You walk with us now, we're supporting you, alright?"

Sherlock complies but does not reply. Slowly they make their way out of the apartment, proceed down the stairs. John picks up Sherlock's coat, takes it along after putting on his own, then locks up their apartment. He follows Sherlock and the paramedics down the stairs, then rides along in the ambulance. It is quiet without sirens.

At the hospital, John stays with Sherlock in the waiting room. After only a short while he is seen and examined by a doctor. Blood is taken, the cut above his left ear is cleaned, disinfected, bandaged. Since Sherlock fails to answer any of the doctor's questions, in the absence of any other obvious injuries, they are told he will also be seen by a neurologist for further assessment. John doubts he or she will have any more success to get answers.

While they are waiting Sherlock is given oral rehydration solution to replenish electrolytes lost from dehydration. It takes more than one stern encouragement, but John makes sure Sherlock drinks every last drop of it.

When the neurologist enters, John makes a point of stressing that he is a medical doctor himself, and Sherlock's friend. The neurologist explains that, because at this time Sherlock appears unable to answer any questions, subjecting him to a neuropsychological exam, to try to find out which area of his brain may be affected, won't help.

"Do you know whether he lost consciousness at some point? If so, for how long?" The doctor addresses John.

John shakes his head. "I don't know. He was missing for a couple of days."

"With a GCS of 11 he may have a moderate brain injury, as in a worse than average concussion." The doctor scribbles 'GCS 11 = E4 V1 M6 at 16.22' in Sherlock's file.

Having treated trauma patients himself in Afghanistan, John is familiar with the Glasgow Coma Scale. He already expected Sherlock to get only a 1 for verbal response, since there has been, and still is, none.

"Is there any way to make sure there's no bleeding in his brain?" John asks, concerned.

"A CT scan might rule that out. But, as you know, it is associated with high levels of radiation, resulting in unnecessary cases of cancer every year. Mr. Holmes appears awake. Yet when asked he does not even attempt to answer. In my estimate, he is not fully conscious. - But, the anisocoria has almost resolved itself," the neurologist points out. "I think observation over the next several hours and days will tell us more."

John steps close to look at Sherlock's eyes. Indeed, his pupils are almost the same size again. He sighs.

"Alright. Observation, where? At hospital, or can he go home?"

"Is there someone who can stay with him?"

"Yeah, me." John purses his lips.

"In this case, I think home is as good as here. He'll be in familiar surroundings, which should have a calming effect. He knows you. Physical and intellectual rest is a must and will help. Should any red flags arise, do come see us immediately, of course."

"I'd say he is not himself right now," John counters, pointing out one of the red flags.

"In my professional opinion he is unable to speak because he is not aware that he is being asked something, which is not the same as not being oneself when fully conscious. Right now he is _not_ fully conscious," the neurologist clarifies.

"Hmm, you're probably right," John agrees. Sherlock's gaze is still unfocused, his facial expression blank. "Thank you, doctor."

"All the best!" The neurologist leaves.

"Come on, Sherlock, let's go home." John pulls Sherlock up to a standing position, manages to get him to cooperate to put on his coat. He leads Sherlock back to the waiting area, from where he calls Mycroft.

"Mycroft. So, the neurologist thinks it's a worse than normal concussion." He purses his lips. "He says to observe him at home, watch out for red flags. - Can you send a car, please? Send the driver in to meet us in the waiting area."

"What do you think of this assessment, John?" Mycroft asks hearing the slight uneasiness in John's voice.

"I'm not a neurologist," John concedes. "I would have liked Sherlock to get a CT scan to rule out bleeding in the brain. The doctor mentioned the high radiation levels... So, yeah, wouldn't want him to get cancer unnecessarily... I'll watch him. S'alright." John's voice sounds determined.

"A car is there already. The driver should meet you momentarily. Thank you for keeping me informed, John," Mycroft says, polite as ever.

John blinks. The driver is stepping into the waiting area already.

"Driver's here. Thanks!"

"Talk to you later." Mycroft disconnects.

"Just walk beside us, in case he needs steadying," John instructs the driver. "Let's go, Sherlock." John walks close beside him, one hand holding on to Sherlock's arm, the other around his waist, to be able to grab him quickly if necessary.

The ride back to Baker Street in Mycroft's car is entirely too quiet for John's liking. He looks at Sherlock, who sits completely still beside him, sideways, hopes that he is not aware of his condition, that he is not climbing the walls of his mind palace in desperate frustration and utter boredom.

After the driver accompanies them upstairs, John dismisses him at the landing.

"Thank you! I'll be able to take it from here. Thanks again!"

The driver nods, then disappears out the door downstairs. Ms. Hudson has heard them come home, now looks out her door.

"I thought I heard you... How is he? Do you need any help, John?" she calls up at them.

"He must have hit his head on something, has a concussion. I'll manage. - Do you maybe have some soup I can bring up for us later?"

"Oh, yes, in fact I do. You can take the whole pot. I can make some more tomorrow."

John knows that their landlady does not mind sharing food with them when needed on occasion. "Thank you, Ms. Hudson! I'll be down later." He opens the door, leads Sherlock inside.

"Welcome home," he mutters. As expected, there is no response from Sherlock. He helps him out of his coat, hangs it up beside his own. Sighing, he leads Sherlock to the bathroom. His clothes look very rumpled, there are some smudges, and a musky smell from wherever he had been while missing. John decides that a bath is in order, that they will both feel better afterwards.

"Bath time," John announces, glad that Sherlock rates 6 for motor response on the GCS, he is able to follow commands. He quickly sprays some disinfectant in the sink where Sherlock had vomited earlier, wipes and rinses it. "Use the toilet first. Flush afterwards. Wash hands. Then take off your clothes," he instructs. "I'll pour the water in the meantime."

After making sure the rubber mat's suction cups stick to the bottom of the tub and attaching a small bath pillow at the slanted end, he looks in the cupboard for something to add to the warm water, decides on rosemary bath oil. As he is adding it, he hears the lid fall down, the toilet flush, the tap run and turn off. Smiling, he turns around, sees Sherlock in the process of undressing.

He has not seen Sherlock naked before. They are friends, surely Sherlock, who is certainly not prude, would not mind. There's a large purple bruise on his left buttock, his left hip and left shoulder are bruised as well. Maybe he slipped and fell, hit his head that way, John wonders. When the bathtub is half full he turns the water off.

"There's your shampoo and conditioner," he points to the bottles on the ledge, easy to reach for Sherlock, he opened the caps already, "soap here. Get in the tub, water's nice and warm." The rosemary oil smells aromatic.

When Sherlock does not move right away John takes his hand, leads him to the edge of the tub. "In you go," he encourages him.

Sherlock steps into the tub, sits down, then immediately curls up on his right side, his head rests on the bath pillow.

"Okay," John notes. This is not going as well as he expected. Either personal hygiene, taking a proper bath, is too complicated for someone with a 6 on the GCS for motor response, or he did not give the right instructions. He blows out a breath, touches Sherlock's shoulder to get his attention.

"Sherlock, you're going to wash your hair and body. Sit up, please!" Sherlock sits up. John smiles. "I'm going to wet your hair." He uses his hands to pour water over Sherlock's hair several times. Sherlock closes his eyes to prevent water from running into them.

"Hold out your hand," John asks. When Sherlock does, he pours a generous amount of shampoo into his hand. "Use the shampoo on your hair." Sherlock uses both hands to lather his hair with the shampoo. John is impressed.

"Fantastic! Here, use the shower head to rinse it off." He turns the water on, hands Sherlock the shower head. It doesn't take him long to rinse the shampoo out. They follow the same steps with the conditioner.

"Great job, Sherlock!" John praises him. "You can open the drain already." Sherlock opens the drain. "Now use the soap to wash up. - Like you normally do," John adds, not sure how and in what order on his body Sherlock normally uses soap. Sherlock uses the soap on his face, ears, neck, armpits, upper body, between toes, legs, belly button, midsection, private parts front and back, then rinses it. John is impressed by his thoroughness. He'll get him to brush his teeth after supper. They might tackle his stubble in the morning.

"Wonderful! Now please rinse off, then step out of the tub and towel dry." Sherlock does as asked. John hands him a towel. Since normally they use the toilet and have a bath in private, without the other present or watching, he is glad Sherlock is able to do all these things by himself, that he does not have to touch his body in order to do it for him. Not that he would not want to touch Sherlock's beautiful body, if Sherlock wanted that, he muses. So far they have not really spoken about these things, there was no need.

It occurs to him that it would be very easy for someone to give Sherlock instructions to do certain things or acts in his current state. Which would be unethical. No one has the right to take advantage of his friend like that, he would chase down anybody that would so much as attempt to abuse or violate him. The realization underscores his determination to protect Sherlock.

Suddenly he wonders whether someone did violate Sherlock while he was missing, before he returned to Baker Street. Maybe he does not speak because he is traumatized. The thought makes him feel nauseous. He kicks himself for not having brought the question up when Sherlock was examined at the hospital, to have a nurse or doctor physically check on that. He needs to know, for Sherlock's sake, to get him help should he need it, and for his own peace of mind.

While Sherlock is finishing towelling off, sighing, he rubs a hand over his eyes. He reminds himself that, as a doctor and Sherlock's friend, he can do this. Keeping his distance, he scrutinizes Sherlock's body for signs of violence. The bruising on his hip is only on his left side, no obvious finger or rope marks are visible.

"Stretch out your arms forward, please," John asks. His face is sober as he looks for track marks, in case Sherlock was drugged. Relieved, he finds none. "Thank you, Sherlock."

He is bending down now to look closer at Sherlock's penis and testicles. There are no visible abrasions, for which he is grateful. He needs to see Sherlock's glans, so asks, "Please, pull your foreskin back." When Sherlock does, it appears completely normal. "Thank you. Let it go now."

Lastly, he moves to kneel down behind Sherlock. He feels uncomfortable to have to ask this, but does anyway. "Please spread your buttocks." He should be used to it by now that Sherlock does as told, but finds it unsettling that he does even that when prompted, without hesitation. "Phew," John breathes a deep sigh of relief at the sight of Sherlock's anus completely normal looking, unharmed. He was not violated.

"Thank you! I'm sorry I had to ask this of you, Sherlock," John apologizes as he gets up. He feels like wrapping Sherlock in his arms, holding him tight, to let him know how glad he is that he is unharmed, and that he intends to keep it that way. Instead, he takes the towel, rubs some more wetness out of his hair and removes the now wet bandage from the cut above his left ear. He hangs up the towel, rinses out the tub, puts Sherlock's clothes in the hamper, then retrieves a tube of Arnica cream from a drawer by the sink.

"Here, let me put some Arnica cream on your bruises. They'll heal quicker that way." Since Sherlock will, most likely, not be able to tell him if the bruising is painful, he takes care to apply the cream using only light pressure. Afterwards, he washes his hands, puts the cream away, applies a fresh bandage to the cut. He is beginning to feel more comfortable in his role as, hopefully temporary, caregiver.

"Alright. - I think normally you use body lotion. And maybe face cream? Please get those. You were dehydrated, your skin can need the moisture."

Sure enough, Sherlock digs out an expensive looking bottle and small jar from underneath the sink.

"Aha, thought so," John comments, putting some of the face cream on Sherlock's fingers. "Rub that on your face." Next, he puts body lotion on Sherlock's hands. "And that on your body, like you normally do." He is not sure where on his body Sherlock normally uses body lotion.

They make their way to Sherlock's bedroom, where he picks out some clothes for him. "Here, put these on: socks, pants, lounge pants, t-shirt." Since it is getting evening already he wants Sherlock to be comfortable. After he has dressed himself, John suggests they go sit down on the couch.

As they sit quietly, John recalls the neurologist's "Physical and intellectual rest is a must and will help." If Sherlock could speak he would say 'Rest is boring!' They have only been home for about 40 minutes, and John is beginning to find the quiet oppressive already.

"Right. You stay put on the couch, I'll go get that pot of soup from Ms. Hudson quickly. Be right back."

He dashes downstairs, knocks on Ms. Hudson's door. She brings the pot of soup to the door, inquires about Sherlock. The two minutes he spends speaking with her feel like a mini-vacation from quiet Sherlock. He thanks her, dashes back upstairs. Sherlock sits exactly as he left him, his face impassive as before. John takes out two portions for their supper to warm up on the stove, leaves the rest in Ms. Hudson's pot and puts it in the fridge. He prepares two cups of tea, to go with the soup.

While the soup heats up on low temperature, he goes sit with Sherlock on the couch. He wonders how long he will be quiet for, whether he will recover. He sighs, picks up a medical journal to read in the meantime. For supper, he gets Sherlock to sit at the kitchen table, where they eat the soup and drink the tea.

Afterwards, in order to escape the quiet, John puts on one of Sherlock's music CDs. He has not heard of this composer before, but the music has something soothing and comforting about it. The CD is just finishing when Mycroft comes by for a visit.

"Good evening, Sherlock, John," he greets as John lets him in. Taking in the way Sherlock sits on the couch, not reacting to his presence, his gaze unfocused, seems to cause Mycroft pain. "I see," is all he says, then remains quiet for a minute. "How are you doing, John?" he inquires.

John shrugs his shoulders. "You know, I used to give him a hard time sometimes when he was bored, sulking. This is only day one! I think I'll get a new appreciation for what he may have felt like at times, though I sincerely hope I will not suffer to the same extent. - I do hope he is not aware of his condition. I think he might find it hard to bear."

Mycroft slowly nods in agreement. "Have there been any red flags?" John shakes his head no. They wouldn't be sitting here if there had been. "That's good. Let's hope it stays that way." He approaches Sherlock on the couch and, to John's surprise, bends down to give him a proper hug. "Get well, brother, for all our sakes, please." His voice sounds very sincere. "I'll come by again some other time," he says in parting as John lets him out.

From the apartment door John looks at Sherlock sitting still on the couch. He shakes his head, hopes that, like the anisocoria, whatever is causing his verbal unresponsiveness will resolve itself with time.

To distract himself John turns on the TV, chooses some 'crap telly'. But without any comments from Sherlock, how outrageously dull the program is, how people's brains must atrophy being subjected to this, it is not the same. He turns the TV off.

Around 9.30 PM he decides he has had enough of this day. "I'm tired," he announces. "You stay put while I go have a shower and brush my teeth." He gets up. "Don't go anywhere," he stresses before dashing up the stairs to his room to fetch his PJs, a change of clothes for tomorrow, his pillow and a blanket. He keeps the shower to a bare minimum, emerges in record time. After checking that Sherlock has not left, he quickly brushes his teeth, puts his PJs on.

"There, I'm back," he lets Sherlock know, then tugs on his arm. "Get up, come with me." He leads him to the bathroom. Asking him whether he needs to use the toilet before going to bed won't work because he won't answer, so he tells him instead, "Use the toilet, wash your hands, then brush your teeth, please. I'll wait outside while you do that."

He waits outside the bathroom door, his back resting against the wall. Occasionally he peeks around the door frame to keep track of Sherlock's progress and is relieved to see that he is able to brush his teeth. When he appears done but is not coming out of the bathroom, John goes to check on him. He sees the toothbrush and spit out toothpaste and saliva in the sink, foam from the toothpaste has dripped down Sherlock's right forearm, is still smeared on his hand and around his mouth, though he managed to keep his t-shirt clean.

"Okay, that's... good, so far." Apparently brushing his teeth is more difficult for Sherlock than using soap on his body. Or, maybe when he brushed his teeth before his disappearance he paid less attention than when he used soap, or maybe he is just tired, John thinks.

"Right,... _Next time_ , and _now_ , when you are finished brushing your teeth, rinse the toothbrush off, put it in the tumbler." John waits while Sherlock does this. "Use your hand to rinse out your mouth and the sink with water, also rinse your forearm off, then dry your skin with the towel." Again, he waits while Sherlock follows his instructions.

"Terrific! I know most days you don't go to bed this early, but physical rest includes sleep. So let's get you comfortable in your bed." John leads Sherlock to his bedroom. He fluffs his pillow, pulls back the duvet for him, has him sit on the edge of the mattress.

"So, erm... lie down to sleep, like you normally do," he suggests, not knowing how Sherlock normally sleeps because most times his bedroom door is closed shut.

Sherlock takes his socks, lounge pants, pants and t-shirt off, lies down on his right side, pulls the duvet up over his shoulder.

Seeing Sherlock naked again, John swallows. He takes the liberty of tucking the duvet closer to Sherlock's body, touches his hair very briefly.

"I'll turn the light in your room off now, keep your door open so I can hear you. If you need anything during the night go to the couch in the living room, I'll be sleeping there. - Good night, Sherlock. Sleep well!" He turns the light in Sherlock's bedroom out, makes sure their apartment door is locked. In the living room, he only leaves a side lamp on, then tries to get comfortable on the couch with his pillow and blanket.

There is no way he can fall asleep right away. Lying on his back, thinking of Sherlock how he was, before he found him in the bathroom today, and how he is now, tears come to his eyes. It hurts him to see his friend, so gifted, normally vocal, and brilliant, so quiet now. The new 'normal', he tries not to feel bitter about it, tries to hold on to the hope that Sherlock will fully recover.

He feels exhausted, mostly emotionally. _Thank you, God, that Sherlock is alive, that he was not violated_ , he prays. _Heal his brain so he can speak again. Let there be no deficits, please._ He sighs.

Again, he thinks of the fact how easily Sherlock, not fully conscious but able to follow instructions, could be manipulated, taken advantage of. At this time, he realizes, there are only two people that he would trust to leave Sherlock alone with: Mycroft and Ms. Hudson. Three, he has to concede, if he includes Greg Lestrade. The strong surge of feeling protective of Sherlock he experiences now is not the first since they met... He is here to guard and watch over Sherlock!

ooo


	2. Thursday

**Chapter 2: Thursday**

 _Thursday:_

When he wakes up, John's back feels a bit creaky. Probable cause: this couch is adapted to Sherlock's longer body, the existing indentations match his shape perfectly, but don't line up with John's shorter frame. He goes to check on Sherlock. Since he had forgotten to pull the curtains closed, his bedroom is filled with bright morning light. While Sherlock appears to be still sleeping, one of his socks is draped over his eyes. _Light sensitivity's a symptom of concussion!_ The sock did not get there by itself. It is encouraging that Sherlock reached for something to block out the light, even if it is his sock.

Sherlock won't miss anything sleeping a while longer, so John clears his pillow and blanket off the couch, dresses in the clothes he brought down the night before, prepares breakfast for them both, then wakes up Sherlock. He has decided to talk with him as he normally would, see how it goes if he keeps instructions to a minimum.

"Good morning, Sherlock. I hope you slept well." Sherlock rouses when John shakes his shoulder gently, but does not respond. "Put on both your socks, get dressed, join me in the kitchen for breakfast."

Sherlock takes the sock off his eyes, squints at the bright light. Naked as he is, he pushes the duvet back to sit on the edge of his mattress.

At the sight of his friend's morning erection John closes his eyes. Until now the thought that he might see _that_ one day had not occurred to him. He is glad that, evidently, Sherlock is normal in this regard. He closes the curtains to dim the sunlight.

From the kitchen he texts Mycroft: _Sherlock had a good night. No red flags. He still does not speak. Is light sensitive! We'll go for a walk in Regent's Park after breakfast. JW_

 _I'm glad he had a good night. Enjoy your walk. Talk to you later. MH_ Mycroft texts back.

Sherlock goes into the bathroom first, even though John had not instructed him to. He hears the toilet flush, the water run and being turned off. John takes it as another encouraging sign that Sherlock is improving. When he joins John in the kitchen he is wearing his socks, lounge pants and t-shirt, even though John had only said "both socks, get dressed." He assumes that Sherlock is wearing his pants under the lounge pants, but, since he does not want to look inside his lounge pants, goes to his bedroom instead to check. The pants are not lying on the floor. Another good sign!

After breakfast they brush their teeth, head out for a short walk. This spring has been relatively cold so far. Since the morning air is still cool they are bundled up in their coats. Sherlock is wearing sneakers, he could tie the laces himself. It took him a while to find them, but once outside Baker Street, John gets him to put on his sunglasses, to help with his light sensitivity.

John is walking beside Sherlock with their arms linked. He does not care who sees them like this, a shorter man leading a taller one wearing sunglasses. It doesn't take them long to get from Baker Street to Regent's Park. Spring flowers are blooming, the sun shines on the light layer of fog hovering over the lawns, birds are singing, the deciduous trees are budding... John concludes it is a beautiful morning.

As they are walking on one of the paths, Sherlock suddenly stops. John looks at his friend, frowning, tries to figure out what the reason could be. Sherlock is looking at the ground, so John looks there as well. His heart is beating faster, because there on the ground, stunned by the cold air, sits a bumblebee! If he had not stopped, with his next step Sherlock would have crushed it.

"Wow!" John looks at the bumblebee, then at Sherlock, scratches his forehead. Gently he maneuvers the insect unto a dry leaf he picks up from the path, then carries it to safety, to a spot by a hedgerow that will be warmed by the sunlight. After commending the creature to God's care, they resume their walk in companionable silence. Here, John does not mind the quiet.

Lestrade calls just after lunch, inquires how Sherlock is. They could need his help with a case, he lets slip.

"That's a no-go, neurologist's orders," John informs him. "You can let me in on the details, I can try," he offers.

In the afternoon they go for another, slightly longer walk. John wants to establish a routine and slowly increase the time they are out walking.

For supper they finish Ms. Hudson's soup. Mycroft stops by later. John informs him of Sherlock's progress. Before leaving, Mycroft tells Sherlock, again, "Get well, brother!"

The rest of the evening is uneventful. John puts on one of his own light jazz CDs, instead of the TV. He would like to think that Sherlock is listening to the music, able to appreciate it. But his friend only sits quietly on the couch beside him. He does not tap his feet, hum along, or otherwise indicate that he is following the rhythm.

Once the CD is finished, he picks up a medical journal, reads an article about human homeostasis out loud. As a doctor, he knows about this, finds it a little boring to be reminded of the details, yet reassuring. Periodically, he checks whether there is any reaction from Sherlock. Finding that there is none, he tries reading one of his blog entries about one of their cases out loud instead, with the same result. He tries not to feel discouraged.

Before going to bed, he gets Sherlock to take a shower, this time unassisted. After he has dried off, John tells him that he is going to apply Arnica cream again to his bruises. Their color is starting to change from purple to yellow. As before, John uses only very light pressure. Then he leads Sherlock directly from the bathroom to his bedroom, he closed his curtains earlier, gets him to lie down and tucks him in.

This time Sherlock is lying down on his left side, maybe by now the bruises are hurting less. John touches his hair only very briefly before wishing him a good night.

"Sleep well, Sherlock. I'm sleeping on the couch. Go there if you need anything during the night!"

At this, Sherlock looks at John directly for a second, sighs contentedly, then closes his eyes. John turns out the bedroom light, leaves the door open.

Their apartment door is locked, the only light left on a side lamp. Dressed in his PJs, lying on the couch with his head on his pillow and body covered with his blanket, John hopes that Sherlock looking at him directly was deliberate, a reaction to John telling him to come to the couch if he should need anything.

Reflecting on this day, he decides that Sherlock looking directly at something, first at the bumblebee on the path during their morning walk, and just a few minutes ago at him, even if it was only brief, is what he finds most encouraging. He wishes Sherlock will look at him directly again, for longer periods. He is beginning to miss Sherlock, the complex, fascinating man that he is, his friend...

After supper he washed Ms. Hudson's now empty pot, stopped by her apartment downstairs very briefly, returned it to her. Naturally she had offered more assistance. He had declined politely, for now. Maybe he and Sherlock can stop by Tesco briefly to pick up some groceries in the morning. Knowing that Sherlock does not like to eat certain vegetables, he is debating whether to try to get him to eat exactly those, maybe their taste and/or texture could lead to a response...

Since he cannot be sure that Sherlock is consciously able to consent at this time, he has decided firmly not to touch him in any way other than what is strictly necessary and what he knows for certain he would not object to.

He wonders whether it is ethical to try to get someone, who probably is not able to consent, to eat vegetables that one knows the person normally would not want to eat. Broccoli, brussels sprouts, as well as the 'hated' asparagus have become very tempting food choices for the next few days. At least broccoli and brussels sprouts are high in vitamin K. Since Sherlock knows that John knows that he dislikes it _very much_ , he is not sure how he could justify asparagus. Should Sherlock question John's trying to get him to eat _that_ , he may have to come up with a plausible reason, pass it off as some kind of experiment...

John reminisces about their time spent together at 221B, first as flatmates, now also as friends. He wants Sherlock back, how he was, wants his brain to function Sherlock-normal again! He misses his expressive face, his voice, his humor, his sarcasm, his brilliant deductions, his playing the violin, his laughter, the gaze of his eyes, the way he moves his hands and body, his rude comments, sulking on the couch, often poor sleeping and eating choices... He does not miss the cigarette smoking or occasional concern he could relapse and use drugs again...

Even though Sherlock is sleeping only a room away, John misses him... Frowning, he wonders just how he misses him. He realizes he would like to let his touches linger, hold his hand, stroke it tenderly... He shakes his head. It's late. He needs to sleep. _Sherlock needs to be able to consent!_

ooo


	3. Friday

**Chapter 3: Friday**

 _Friday:_

John has come to look forward to these walks with Sherlock. Before heading out this morning, he packs a reusable shopping bag into a messenger bag, which he slings over his shoulder. Today, the forecast calls for warmer temperatures, John is wearing a canvas jacket, Sherlock a zippered hoodie. Sherlock's stubble is getting longer, since John decided that shaving can wait for now.

After their walk they stop by Tesco. The lights in the supermarket are quite bright, so John does not get Sherlock to take his sunglasses off right away. People may assume that he is trying to hide a black eye, or that his regular glasses are broken. They will probably not think of light sensitivity resulting from a concussion as a reason, John thinks.

Standing in the produce isle now, he is looking for the specific vegetables he wants to use in the next few days. Ideally, Sherlock should be fully conscious now, able to consent or object. John will show him every vegetable he wants to buy today, talk about it, and watch carefully for any positive or negative reactions or vocalizations from Sherlock. In order to read his face better, he asks him to take his sunglasses off for a couple of minutes.

"Ah, look at this broccoli," he says holding a large bunch in Sherlock's field of vision. Sherlock looks at the broccoli, then at John. "I'll cook a nice broccoli soup for us tonight. Sound good?" Sherlock looks at the broccoli again, says nothing.

"Okay. You can put it in this bag, then into the shopping cart." He hands the broccoli bunch to Sherlock, holds one of the produce bags open for him. Sherlock puts the broccoli into the bag, then lays the bag into their cart. John sighs, Sherlock's silence saddens him.

"Super, let's move on." Next, they stop in front of the brussels sprouts. "Brussels sprouts, look," he says theatrically. Sherlock looks at the brussels sprouts, then at John. "I'll roast them for us in the oven with oil drizzled over them on Saturday. We can have some meat and mashed potatoes with it. Sound good?" Sherlock looks at the brussels sprouts again, says nothing. John thinks there is the slightest hint of a frown on Sherlock's face, as if he is trying to think of something.

"Alright." John sighs deeply and swallows. "You can put three handfuls into this produce bag," he is holding another bag open, "then put it in the cart." Sherlock does as asked.

"One more." John leads them to the asparagus stand. Knowing that it is probably Sherlock's least favorite vegetable, he does not enjoy this. "Have a look at this asparagus." Sherlock looks at John first, slightly longer this time, then at the asparagus. "I'll cook asparagus with chicken and rice for us on Sunday. Sound good?" John thinks that Sherlock is nearly squinting his eyes and getting closer to an actual frown. He does not say something like ' _You_ can eat all the broccoli and brussels sprouts and asparagus you want, John. By all means, knock yourself right _out_. _I_ certainly won't have _any_ of it! Especially not _asparagus_!' as John had hoped.

"That settles it, then. You can grab a bunch of asparagus, put it in this produce bag, then into the cart." John holds a bag open. Sherlock reaches for a bunch of asparagus, but as his fingers touch it, John can see that he purses his lips before placing it in the bag and on into the cart.

"Thank you for helping with the shopping, Sherlock. You can put your sunglasses back on now. Let's get that meat and chicken as well, more bread and milk, pay, then go home." He smiles encouragingly at Sherlock, pleased that he got a near-squint, a close-frown, and actual pursed lips as a reaction to the asparagus from Sherlock.

The groceries fit into the bags they brought. John carries the reusable shopping bag, Sherlock has the strap of the messenger bag diagonally over his chest and back so the weight rests on his hip as well.

At home, when John opens the fridge door to put some of the groceries away, an off smell indicates that one of Sherlock's experiments is going bad. He checks and finds the offensive item, a jar containing what looks like a piece of liver with a slimy substance growing on it already immersed in some pink liquid, the lid was not screwed on tight enough.

"Sorry, this will have to go!" After having tightened the jar lid as tight as possible, he shows the jar to Sherlock, who is sitting at the kitchen table. "I'm confident that whatever experiment it was you'll be able to recreate it. Right now, it's going out into the bin!" Sherlock shows no interest in the jar or its contents, does not protest, so John puts it into a paper bag, then heads for their apartment door to put it into the garbage bin outside. "Don't go anywhere! I'll be right back," he insists. Sherlock still sits at the kitchen table when he gets back.

Not making progress with the case he called about the day before, having decided to take John up on his offer, Lestrade stops by Baker Street after lunch. Sitting in John's armchair, he watches Sherlock sit quietly on the couch, listens to John explain that Sherlock not stepping on that bumblebee yesterday is definitely a sign of improvement.

"Did anything else improve today?" Lestrade asks.

John thinks for a second, then answers, "Probably," referring to his hope that the vegetables he got Sherlock to look at and touch at Tesco will contribute to his recovery in some way. Earlier in the day he tried again to communicate with Sherlock, tried to get him to shake his head yes or no to answer questions. When that failed he explained he should blink briefly to indicate 'yes', keep his eyes closed for a second to indicate 'no', with the same result.

"I'm sure Sherlock would have solved this in no time. Can you leave the file here for a couple of hours while I look at it?"

"Fine," Lestrade sighs, "but I need it back then."

"Will you be at your office or at home later?"

"Office, still." Lestrade does not look enthusiastic about that. "And you're not going to ask him to look at any of this?" He is so used to seeing Sherlock solve cases, listen to his deductions, that he finds it painful to see this man he knows as a brilliant detective be so quiet now.

"Nope. I do want to give it a try, see how far I get - without his help..." John purses his lips, begins to look sad.

"Alright, I'm off." Lestrade gets up. "Is it alright if I touch him?" he inquires of John.

"I don't think he would object to a casual touch from you," John answers. "I'm sure he would not want you to pity him, though."

Lestrade thinks back how he has touched Sherlock in the past. "Casual, right." His face shows a tight smile. "See you later, Sherlock. Get well!" Touching Sherlock's shoulder briefly, he has to keep himself from wincing because there is no response from his crime-solving colleague.

"See you later, John," Lestrade says before John closes the apartment door behind him.

John looks forward to immersing himself in this case for a while. It will provide a distraction from wondering when Sherlock will be fully conscious and himself again. He sits down beside Sherlock on the couch.

"Okay, let's see..." He puts the soles of his feet on the edge of the coffee table, places the file on his thighs, opens it.

Sherlock moves closer to John, rests his head on his shoulder, yawns, then closes his eyes.

For a second John is surprised by their physical proximity. He wonders whether Sherlock moved closer because he said "let's see," but then, Sherlock's eyes are closed. Maybe he is simply tired, wants to use John's shoulder as a pillow.

"Okay," he says again, not moving away from Sherlock. After skimming through the file, he voices the main points of the case, for himself, and for Sherlock. "Any opinion?" he asks anyway, just in case Sherlock might be able to speak. When there is only silence, John wonders, again, whether Sherlock is consciously aware of what is being said at all. His hearing was tested at the hospital, he is _not_ deaf.

John describes crime scene photos and keeps voicing his own thoughts and conclusions. In his mind, he can hear what Sherlock would, likely, think and say about certain points. In a way he finds this distracting, yet also comforting, for it 'sounds' like Sherlock as he knows him. John smiles. It is almost like Sherlock is giving him hints, pointing out things to John, remarking on where the police got it wrong, yet he has not said one single actual word, his head rests quietly on John's shoulder.

 _'See this here,..._

 _Look here,..._

 _Definitely not! ..._

 _Human nature! ..._

 _Who was on forensics? ..._

 _This person's alibi does not line up with the facts. ..._

 _How can the police be so..._

 _Which leads us to...'_

"Got it - I think," John says to himself after running through the major and important minor points in his head again.  
His feeling proud that he was, most likely, able to solve this case by himself, after _only_ 80 minutes, is dampened by the knowledge that, normally, at this point he would be saying "Brilliant!" to Sherlock.

ooo

At 3.30 PM Sherlock has a follow-up appointment at the hospital to check how he is doing. Mycroft is sending a car to take them there and back. He will meet them there. John texts Lestrade, asks whether the file can be dropped off by one of Mycroft's people, mentions that he will include a piece of paper outlining his conclusions. Lestrade texts back, yes. The case file makes its way back into Lestrade's office at Scotland Yard in a nondescript brown paper bag.

At the hospital, Sherlock is examined again. Though the MRI of his head shows that there is no bleeding or swelling inside his skull, he has a mild concussion, it does not explain why he still does not speak. John is asked what observations he has made, lists everything he sees as progress, stresses the more deliberate eye contact lately. The neurologist is pleased that there have been no red flags, suggests Sherlock's brain may simply need more time to fully recover, to keep up the physical and intellectual rest for now. No chases, and no cases.

Mycroft offers to accompany them on their afternoon walk, instead of visiting later. For a change of scenery, they agree on Hyde Park.

"Walk beside me, Sherlock," John suggests after getting out of the car, even though he has gotten used to walking with their arms linked. He does not want Sherlock to depend on him too much.

Sherlock is wearing his sunglasses, John walks to his left, Mycroft to his right. Occasionally John points out certain trees, flowers, birds or insects. Sherlock looks at everything that is mentioned, even smells a tulip and a daffodil when prompted.

Mycroft remains quiet, keeps his thoughts and observations to himself. Halfway through their walk they sit down on a bench for a few minutes.

"Thank you for taking good care of him, John," Mycroft states.

"Hmm, not a problem. What else would I do?" John answers, realizing that, as long as he is able to, he wants to be the one taking care of Sherlock. Tightening the grip of his clasped hands, he would like to tell him, 'Don't worry, I'll be there for you,' but does not. Maybe he will at some later point, when Mycroft is not along.

ooo

Back at Baker Street, once inside the front door, Sherlock takes off his sunglasses unprompted. Ms. Hudson pops out of her apartment to greet them.

"Hello, Sherlock! Hello, John!"

John acknowledges her with a nod. When Sherlock does not react, she asks, "Is he still like that? He doesn't speak?"

"Yes. I hope it won't last that much longer, and that he will be himself again then."

Ms. Hudson looks a bit sad and concerned. "Do you think he's aware?"

"Not fully, I think."

"Can I give him a hug?"

"Thank you for asking! Yes, I think that'll be alright." John knows that Sherlock has accepted hugs from Ms. Hudson in the past.

She gives Sherlock a tight squeeze. "I baked his favorite pastries. Can you take some upstairs?"

"You can ask him to carry them upstairs," John encourages her.

Ms. Hudson gets a tray with said pastries, presses it into Sherlock's hand. "Here, dear, they're your favorite. Take those upstairs, you can let John have a few as well." She smiles fondly at him. Sherlock does not smile back.

"Thank you very much, Ms. Hudson! Have a good evening still. - Let's go upstairs and start cooking supper, Sherlock," he suggests.

"You two have a good evening as well." Ms. Hudson goes back into her apartment.

Upstairs, John gets Sherlock to rinse the broccoli stalks under running water, before handing them to him. Since he does not want him to handle a sharp knife, he cuts all the vegetables himself. Once everything is beginning to simmer in the pot cooking time should not be too long.

"Here," John presses the cooking spoon into Sherlock's hand. "You can stir the soup once every five minutes. There's the clock on the wall," he points to it. This is his chance to get Sherlock to spend time in the kitchen helping with cooking, instead of doing experiments. Normally, he would complain, 'This is so _boring!_ '

While Sherlock tends the soup, John cuts several slices off a baguette, toasts them on a tray in the oven, with cheese sprinkled on top. When the soup is done he purees it. To drink with this simple meal, he pours them half a glass of red wine each.

After supper, he gets Sherlock to dry and put away some of the dishes, though none of the very fragile and sharp ones. He refrigerates the rest of the soup for their lunch tomorrow. John thinks it would be nice if Sherlock, when he is not involved with a case, would help more often with cooking in some way or other. Maybe he will have an opportunity to speak with him about this, once he is recovered...

Lestrade sends a text thanking John for his input with this particular case. They are following up on his suggestions now, which may lead to an arrest still this evening. John hopes Sherlock will be the one solving the next case Scotland Yard may need their help with.

As the evening is getting on, John puts on one of Sherlock's music CDs to listen to. However, he finds Chopin's Prelude No. 4 in E minor too sad, decides to turn this particular CD off. The ensuing silence underscores that he misses hearing and seeing Sherlock play his violin.

They are sitting on the couch again, about 50 cm apart, when Sherlock takes John's hand, pulls it over to rest on his upper thigh. John takes a deep breath, swallows, surprised by this sudden, unprecedented contact. He looks over, blinks at the sight of Sherlock holding his hand. Yes, they have held hands a few times in the past, on a case, during a chase, when necessary, but never like this, not sitting on the couch.

John's mind is swamped with questions. Is Sherlock aware of what he is doing? Why is he doing this? How is he to react? If Sherlock is aware, he does not want to hurt his feelings by freeing his hand from his grasp. If he is not aware, he should not leave his hand there, because he does not know where this could lead.

"Sherlock, do you know what you are doing?" he decides to ask. As he suspected, there is no answer. _Stay calm, don't freak out_ , he tells himself. Should Sherlock try to move their hands anywhere else than his thigh, though, he will say 'no.' Did Sherlock sense his sadness and reached out to comfort him? Is he trying to say, 'I'm here, I'm aware, even though I don't speak.'?

John looks at Sherlock's face, from the side, for clues, but finds no obvious ones. His head is slightly bent forward, he seems to be looking at the floor, as if lost in thought.

"I appreciate that you are holding my hand like this, Sherlock." John wonders whether he would be saying this to Sherlock under "normal circumstances". When he allows himself to relax and enjoy this simple touch after a minute, it becomes more personal, feels like establishing a connection between them. He begins stroking Sherlock's hand with his thumb and other fingers for a couple of minutes, trying to communicate unspoken words and feelings, reassurance. Sherlock does not move his fingers in the same way, but he does not pull away either.

John finds this contact satisfying. Before letting go, he squeezes Sherlock's hand gently.

"We should get ready for bed. You go ahead, have a shower, wash your hair. How are your bruises? Do you still want me to put that Arnica cream on? - Right, I'll check, if you don't mind..."

Without giving an answer, Sherlock gets up, heads into the bathroom. John will have his shower after Sherlock falls asleep, which, these days, does not take long. He applies Arnica cream again to Sherlock's bruises with very gentle pressure, tucks him in. Tonight, he would like to sit on the edge of his mattress, watch him fall asleep. He wonders whether Sherlock would mind, so does not.

Sherlock looks at John directly, before he opens his mouth.

"Sleep well, Sherlock. Go to the couch in the living room should you need anything during the night, I'll be sleeping there." John touches his hair very briefly before turning out the light. "Good night!"

The bedroom curtains are already closed, John has his own shower. He wonders if their roles were reversed, whether and how Sherlock would be taking care of him, and what prompted him to take his hand. When he lies on his makeshift bed on the couch, he prays, _God, thank you for this day. Thank you for all the progress Sherlock is making! Please heal his brain, let him fully recover so he can speak again. May there be no deficits! In Jesus' name, Amen._

ooo


	4. Saturday

**Chapter 4: Saturday**

 _Saturday:_

John wakes early because he has to pee. He decides to get up, hopes he will be able to fall back asleep. On his way back from the bathroom, from the doorway, he looks inside Sherlock's bedroom to check on him. Everything is peaceful and quiet. He lies sprawled out in bed on his stomach, the duvet has slipped down, half of his buttocks are exposed. Smiling, John pads over to the couch, lies down.

Sleep eludes him for several minutes. He keeps wondering why Sherlock took his hand the night before. He will try again to establish communicating 'yes' and 'no' with him, but if Sherlock should still be unable to consent or object, John will try to avoid any unnecessary physical contact. Maybe he should sit in his own armchair instead, to avoid being used as a pillow. But if Sherlock sits on the side of the couch close to John's armchair, he could still reach out and take his hand...

John's thoughts keep going in circles. _If_ Sherlock is _not_ really aware of what is going on around him, or what he is doing, or what is being done to and/or with him, he needs to ensure that only things that he is sure Sherlock would not object to will happen. He does not want him to possibly remember something that he really would not have wanted to do or done to him. Which reminds him of the vegetables he knows Sherlock, normally, does not like to eat. Hoping that Sherlock will react in some way to them, he decides normally-objected-to-vegetables are a grey area. It's around 4.50 AM when he finally falls back asleep.

ooo

For breakfast, John prepares tea, scrambled eggs and toast with jam. Sherlock looks at him directly when he stands by his bedside to wake him, then, unexpectedly, takes his hand, tugs on it, to get him to sit on the mattress. In his surprise, John obliges.

"What is it?" he asks, puzzled.

He searches Sherlock's face, concerned, expects him to open his mouth any second to say _something_. Focusing on his face, he does not notice right away that Sherlock is moving their hands towards his duvet-covered groin. When he does notice, though, he looks where their hands are about 15 cm from what he assumes is the intended destination, stops Sherlock's movement. It is not obvious through the duvet whether Sherlock is hard underneath, or not.

"Stop!" John's voice is firm. He blinks, licks his lips. "Sherlock, do you know what you are doing?" He checks for any reaction from Sherlock, but he only keeps looking at John intently, quietly.

"Alright," John takes a deep breath. "Right now, I cannot let you take my hand to touch your groin." He pauses. "Please let go of my hand." Sherlock does so immediately. John places his hand on his own thigh.

"Thank you! - When you are fully conscious again, we _will_ talk about what you want, I promise." Looking away, he tries to hide his sadness that Sherlock is not able to communicate. Yet, he hopes. "Right," he squeezes Sherlock's shoulder briefly as he gets up. "Breakfast's ready in the kitchen. If you're hungry, come join me there."

As Sherlock pushes the duvet back to get up, John notices that he does have an erection. While Sherlock is in the bathroom, in the kitchen, John pours their tea, puts the plates with scrambled eggs and toast on the table. Waiting, drumming his fingers on the tabletop, he wonders whether Sherlock really wants him to touch his erection and just can't say so, whether it's a subconscious desire of his, or whether, if he was conscious, he would not want this at all. He cannot know for sure until they can talk.

"Ah, there you are," he greets Sherlock with a warm smile. "I checked the weather forecast, it's going to be nice, not too warm. Any place in particular you'd like to go today?"

Sherlock pauses putting a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth, looks at John with a near-squint and an extremely faint shake 'no' of his head, John thinks, then resumes eating.

John is glad that since he is recovering from the concussion, Sherlock is getting more sleep, eating more food, and spending more time outdoors. He hopes those things will aid in his healing as well.

ooo

Walking side by side in Regent's Park, Sherlock's curls are sticking out underneath the navy colored baseball cap he is wearing this morning. With his stubble getting longer every day and wearing silver-rimmed sunglasses and white sneakers, he looks more like a tourist than a resident living nearby. John has kept shaving these past days, today is better dressed than Sherlock.

Even though Sherlock is walking right beside him, John misses him. It has been almost a week since he last heard his voice, he muses. He misses hearing the vocalizations of his sharp mind, the way he enunciates certain words, the way his voice sounds... John feels sad, but tries not to feel discouraged.

He credits God with answering his prayer, "let me live," saving his life, keeping him from killing himself when he was so depressed after he was injured, lost his career... then met Sherlock... That he wants to pray for Sherlock to recover comes naturally. Maybe praying for him while taking communion could make a difference, he wonders.

He is not surprised when, just then, Sherlock takes his hand. He does not ask him to let go.

ooo

Back at 221B, before going up to their apartment, John knocks on Ms. Hudson's door.

"Good morning, John, good morning Sherlock," she greets them, still dressed in her morning gown at 11 AM.

"Hello, Ms. Hudson. May I ask a favor?" John inquires.

"Of course, dear, what is it?"

"Would you be able to stay with Sherlock for a while tomorrow morning? I could need a break, haven't been to church in ages..." He realizes he does not know where Ms. Hudson stands on the topic of faith.

"Well, I think that's great, John. I haven't been in ages either. You go ahead, of course I'll look after Sherlock! What time do you want me to come up?"

"I'll have to check, will let you know. Thanks so much, Ms. Hudson!"

"Get well, Sherlock!" Mustering his blank face, Ms. Hudson squeezes his hand firmly, then nods at John. "You let me know if you need anything else, will you."

"Yes, thank you!" John nods back at her.

Back in their apartment upstairs, for lunch, they have left over broccoli soup. Sherlock eats a whole bowl full.

ooo

After their afternoon walk, John uses his computer to look for a church close-by that offers a short service just to receive communion, he does not want to be gone that long from Sherlock. At some other time in the future, he'd like to attend a regular service. The church he decides on has a short service at 9.15 AM. He calls Ms. Hudson, asks her to come upstairs for 8.50 AM. He'll take a taxi, should be back in about one hour.

John is curious how Sherlock will react to the brussels sprouts. He washes them, cuts the stems off, then cuts them in half. After the pieces are tossed in a bowl with some oil, sprinkled with salt and pepper, they're spread out on a baking sheet.

"Here, you can sprinkle some pine nuts on top." He shakes some into Sherlock's hand, which Sherlock distributes evenly. The brussels sprouts bake in the oven at 200 °C for 40 minutes. Preparing the meat and mashed potatoes for supper does not take long.

John notices that Sherlock does not mind eating these brussels sprouts. Maybe so far he's only had the boiled mushy ones, didn't like those. As the day before, he gets him to help with the dishes afterwards.

Mycroft calls in the evening, inquires how Sherlock is doing. Amused, John thinks that normally by now Sherlock would certainly vehemently have objected to his brother's attention and expressions of caring.

"Yeah, I honestly think he's getting a little better every day," John states thinking of the way Sherlock seems to take his hand intentionally, for instance. "I've asked Ms. Hudson to look after him for about an hour tomorrow morning. I want to take communion... you know...," John trails off, not knowing how to convey to Mycroft why he feels the need to do so and pray for Sherlock.

"Thank you, John. I do appreciate _all_ your efforts on behalf of my brother," is Mycroft's even, sincere, answer. "I'll see you probably tomorrow. Good night." Mycroft ends the call.

Forgetting that he considered sitting in his armchair to avoid being used as a pillow, John sits beside Sherlock on the couch to watch some television, an educational program this time, not crap telly. It doesn't take long for Sherlock to move closer, put his head on John's shoulder. As he begins to relax more, his head feels heavier. After a few minutes he stretches out on the couch, puts his head in John's lap. John sighs, this does feel comfortable, but he does not otherwise touch Sherlock.

ooo

After their evening routine - John tells Sherlock again, "Come to the couch in the living room if you need anything in the night. I'll be sleeping there." - John is settled on the couch.

Even though back then at Angelo's he had said he was not asking, after Sherlock had stated he was not looking for any..., now he is beginning to wonder about his feelings for Sherlock. He finds Sherlock beautiful and attractive... Why does he feel so protective of him? How would he feel if Sherlock, once recovered, did begin a relationship with somebody? Would he be truly happy for his friend, or would he wish it was him?

Swallowing, John hopes that Sherlock really does want to touch him in the ways he's been initiating. He needs to recover, so that they can talk.

ooo


	5. Sunday (part 1)

**Chapter 5: Sunday (part 1)**

 _Sunday (part 1):_

In order to avoid the possibility of his hand being grabbed again and "dragged" to who knows where, John decides to wake Sherlock by calling him from his bedroom door. There is not much movement in response, so, sighing, he approaches Sherlock's bed, addresses him from 1 m away. This time, Sherlock does look at him and, as he had thought it might happen, reaches out for him.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I can't give you my hand right now because I don't know where you would take it. So ...," he sighs, "just get up, get ready, join me for breakfast. Alright?" He keeps his tone light, turns and heads into the kitchen.

Waiting while Sherlock takes a shower and gets dressed, he wonders whether he is even aware that he reached out for him. He is sure though, that normally, unless they were a couple, Sherlock would not want to take his hand like that. He never did in the past. Why is he reaching out now?

Dressed in his usual lounge clothes, Sherlock sits down for breakfast, raises his teacup to drink from it.

"Ms. Hudson is going to be here in a while to keep you company for about one hour. I want to attend a short service, then I'll be back," John lets him know what is going to happen shortly.

Upon hearing this, it seems, Sherlock lowers his cup without having taken a sip to look at his plate with a faraway expression. After a few seconds he lifts the teacup and drinks.

"We can go for our walk once I'm back," John adds. Sherlock does not react to this. They both keep eating.

At 8.50 AM sharp Ms. Hudson knocks at the apartment door, John lets her in. His taxi is on its way, should be here any minute. He has put on a CD with classical music to play quietly in the background. Sherlock is sitting on the couch.

"So, erm, thanks for doing this, Ms. Hudson! I suggest you sit in my armchair, or Sherlock's armchair, just _not_ beside him on the couch." He does not want to elaborate on the fact that Sherlock has taken his hand repeatedly while he is still not fully conscious, even tried to get him to touch his private parts.

"He's not fully aware yet," he adds when Ms. Hudson looks at him, puzzled. "You can listen to music, read quietly by yourself, read something aloud to him, talk to him about anything you want. The recent newspapers are under the coffee table, we have magazines, text books, novels...," he points to the bookshelves.

Ms. Hudson looks around their apartment. "When was the last time you dusted? Or tidied?"

"Erm...," John purses his lips, looks around as well. "I haven't really had time, looking after Sherlock. - It's not that bad, is it?"

"You're right, it's not. I'll just tidy and dust a bit while I chat with him until you're back. You go ahead, dear, we'll be fine. Right, Sherlock?" Standing in front of the coffee table, she addresses Sherlock. When he does not react or respond she sighs, resigned.

Knowing that Sherlock will stay sitting on the couch unless he has to use the bathroom, John is relieved, in fact, that Ms. Hudson has decided not to sit down for the time being.

"I'll be back in about an hour then." He squeezes Sherlock's shoulder briefly before making his way downstairs and outside.

The taxi ride to the church takes less than 15 minutes, largely due to the fact that this early on a Sunday morning there is less traffic. Because he hasn't been to this particular church before, John is not sure what to expect. In fact, the last time he attended a service was in a tent while in camp in Afghanistan, before he was shot.

Before entering the church, he pays the driver, tells him to come back in 35 minutes. Designed by Christopher Wren, John finds the building beautiful and spacious inside. He is greeted warmly, handed a service book, makes his way to one of the pews in the front. One of the reasons why it is a short service, there won't be any singing.

There are about 20 other people, making the atmosphere of the service more intimate. He is able to follow along in the service book, at the prayer for confession and absolution, acknowledges that, yes, he definitely neglected his relationship with his Creator, he is sorry. Maybe he should reach out to his sister Harry, see how she is doing, it has been a long time...

In time, he gets in line to take communion. He receives a piece of the bread in his hand, takes a sip of wine from the cup, thanks God. Sitting back in his pew with his eyes closed, the bread still in his mouth, he thanks God again, for having died for his sin, for loving him. Twice, he asks God to heal Sherlock's brain, that he will be able to speak again, that there will be no deficits.

Soon the service is over. Before leaving, as a sign of respect, John bows his head. Outside, the taxi is waiting already. The ride back to 221B feels short. Bounding up the stairs, he feels hopeful that God will answer his prayer soon.

"I'm back," he announces swinging open their apartment door with enthusiasm, taking in the scene: Sherlock is sitting on the couch, feet on the coffee table, with a book on his knees. He's looking straight ahead, though, not reading. Ms. Hudson is in the kitchen, preparing tea.

"You and John, ... I would be so happy for you. You _do need_ to talk with him!" She is obviously speaking to Sherlock. "Oh, hello, John, you're back already!"

"Yes. I'm glad I could go, and I'm glad I'm back."

After hanging up his coat and washing his hands, John goes to the couch.

"Hello, Sherlock." Seeing him sitting there, motionless, John's heart fills with love and compassion, he realizes he missed him. "Hmm, chemistry, did you pick this book?" When there is no answer from Sherlock, he asks Ms. Hudson. "Did he pick this book?"

Ms. Hudson comes out of the kitchen carrying a tray holding three teacups and saucers, teaspoons, a teapot, creamer and sugar bowl, which she places on the coffee table.

"No, I did. I know he likes chemistry. I thought he might find it interesting. I tried to read to him, but it's so dry, and those strange long words...," she purses her lips, shakes her head. "I suggested he could read it himself." She proceeds to pour a cup of tea for each of them, then sits in Sherlock's armchair.

"And, did he?" If he did, even for only a short period, it would be another improvement.

"At first it looked like it, but I'm not sure, really." Trying to remember, Ms. Hudson frowns.

Since Sherlock appears not to be reading right now, John suggests, "You can put the book down, have some tea, if you want." His eyes widen and he holds his breath when Sherlock earmarks the page, then places the book beside his feet, which are still on the table.

John sighs, sits in his armchair, while Ms. Hudson sits in Sherlock's.

"So, how was the service?" she inquires.

"Good,... it was good." John answers, lost in thought.

"Where did you go?"

"Hm? Oh, St. James's Piccadilly."

"Hm,..." Ms. Hudson takes a sip of her tea. "Any particular reason why there?"

Heaving another sigh, John looks at her. "It's not too far away. They are inclusive,..."

"Inclusive?" Ms. Hudson interrupts him.

"Meaning everyone is welcome, including lesbians, gays, bisexuals and transgender people."

"Trans-what?" she asks, not familiar with the term.

"Transgender: people born with a female body, who _identify_ male, wish they had a male body, also called transmen, and people born with a male body, who _identify_ female, wish they had a female body, also called transwomen. I don't know any trans person myself, but I imagine it probably can be challenging at times. Some take hormones and/or change parts of their body surgically, and/or live as their desired gender, which is called transitioning, others do not transition.

"Have you experienced or witnessed any homo- or transphobia, even if it is subtle?" he asks her.

Ms. Hudson shakes her head. "Mrs. Turner next door's got married ones. I don't see a problem. I was thinking one day you and Sherlock..."

"Not everyone is as accepting as you." Since Sherlock is sitting right there, he feels uncomfortable discussing their relationship with her. " _A lot_ of people think we're a couple already when, as you know, we are not at this time. Hopefully he recovers soon so we can talk about this," he hints.

Ms. Hudson nods in agreement. "I would be so happy for you..."

"I know you would be. But that is between Sherlock and me, private. - My sister, Harry, was married to a woman. When she came out as a teenager, my parents were very hard on her. The leadership of the youth group at the church she attended did not support her, told her same-sex love was 'not biblical.' She felt rejected...

"At medical school, a classmate confided in me that he was homosexual. At the church he attended they taught that same-sex love is sin, gay people should live celibate. He did not dare tell anyone there of his sexual orientation because he strongly suspected they would not accept him. I saw first-hand what difference attending an inclusive church, where he could be 'out' and open about his sexuality, made in his life. He didn't have to hide anymore, he was accepted!

" _If_ Sherlock and me, you know, ... - _I choose_ to attend an inclusive church. I used a website called to look for one in our area."

Ms. Hudson has lifted her eyebrows. John suspects he gave her too much information. "Can someone my age go there?"

"Of course, that is the point, _everyone_ is welcome," he reassures her.

Ms. Hudson has finished her tea, gets up. "Well, that gives me something to think about. - Get well, dear." She pats Sherlock on his forearm."It sounds like John _really_ wants to speak with you about something private!"

Chuckling, John shakes his head at Ms. Hudson's candidness. "Thank you for staying with Sherlock, and thank you for making us tea." He walks her to the door.

"Any time, dear, just let me know."

After Sherlock has drunk his tea and John has carried the dishes back into the kitchen, they embark on their late-morning walk on this beautiful Sunday. On purpose, John does not take Sherlock's hand, but should Sherlock take his hand again, he has decided, he will let him hold it, because a hand is not a penis.

They pass a couple, walking very close together, one of the partners has his arm across the shoulders of the other. Very soon after, unexpectedly, Sherlock moves closer, puts his arm across John's shoulders. John blinks, nearly freezes mid step. His shoulders are not a penis, he lets Sherlock walk with him like that.

After a light lunch, John tries to get Sherlock interested in another book. Standing by the bookshelf, he describes various ones to him.

"What about this one about beekeeping?" Sherlock takes the book from his hand, sits down on the couch, appears to look at the pages. Pleased, John sits in his armchair, reads a medical journal.

During their afternoon walk, the sky darkens. John did not check the weather forecast, but the higher humidity suggests rain, possibly a thunderstorm, is coming. Instead of staying on the walkway to head home earlier, he decides to walk through a small patch of forest. They are just passing an oak tree when Sherlock tugs on his wrist. Turning to ask what it is, Sherlock crowds John against the tree, holds him in place with his hands on his shoulders, his head rests on John's. John can feel something hard pressing against his stomach: Sherlock has an erection, it is not morning.

"Sherlock, do you know what you are doing?" John needs to ascertain. For a second, he resists pushing Sherlock away. But when there is no verbal response, Sherlock only presses his groin harder against him, he knows he cannot reciprocate.

"Thought so," he mutters, disappointed that the first time he feels Sherlock's erection against him is under these circumstances.

"Sherlock, stop, please! Let me go! Step back! Now!" John commands as firm as he can.

Sherlock startles, takes his hands off John's shoulders, steps back.

"Thank you! Let's go home," he says evenly, linking their arms. "This way..."

It's already beginning to drizzle, by the time they are back in their apartment it's pouring. After hanging up their coats, John sits down in his armchair, thinks about what happened by the oak tree. He is frustrated because he does not know whether Sherlock really wants such physical contact with him, or whether he is not aware of what he is doing at all. Instead of romantic, he found this most recent incident of Sherlock touching him stressful. Why is he touching him increasingly like this now, when he never did in the past?

He narrows his eyes, puts on some crap telly as a distraction and background noise. Sherlock lies facing the back of the couch, as he does sometimes when he sulks. John wonders whether he can sense that John is upset with him, that he is in trouble. He takes a deep breath, purposes to calm down instead of getting more upset with each minute about the implications where this might lead. Sherlock is vulnerable, he must not be taken advantage of!

After watching Sherlock's back rise and fall with his breathing for a couple of minutes, he goes into the kitchen to start preparing supper. Chicken with rice and asparagus, Sherlock's least favorite vegetable, as far as he knows. He still hopes Sherlock will react to it in some way.

As the asparagus boils, its distinctive aroma permeates the air in the apartment. John waits with calling Sherlock to help with supper preparations, apprehensive that there could be another attempt to crowd him against a wall, table, or counter. He is cutting some chives to add to the sauce on a wooden cutting board.

"Sherlock, please come help me in the kitchen," he calls finally, sticking his head out the kitchen door.

Sherlock, meanwhile, is sitting on the couch, rubbing the left side of his head.

ooo


	6. Sunday (part 2)

**Chapter 6: Sunday (part 2)**

[ _Wednesday to Saturday:_ ]

"Sherlock,..."

" _Sher_ lock,..."

"Sher _lock_ ,..."

"Sherlock,..."

[ _Sunday (part 2):_ ]

" _Sherlock_ ,..." John's voice reaches Sherlock's consciousness.

His whole being and body feel calm, quiet, rested, and _very_ relaxed. Eventually he notes that his mind is quite blank. He does not remember whether there is a blank room in his mind palace.

Staying where he is, for now, lying on the couch, he wonders how often John has been calling him already. The dips in the couch feel a little different, as if someone else has been lying on it. Wrinkling his nose, he sniffs the air. The smell is familiar, among his least favorite. There is a slight pressure above his left ear, he sits up, rubs at the spot.

"Sherlock, please come help me in the kitchen." _John_ , he smiles. _Help with what?_

He frowns at the scene on the television, people laughing at the answer to some, in his opinion, stupid question, reaches for the remote. Muttering "crap telly" to himself, shaking his head, he clicks the TV off.

"Are you cooking asparagus?"

There's a loud bang in the kitchen, something heavy hit the floor. He rushes there, John looks at him, very surprised with his mouth open. A wooden cutting board, spilled chives and a large knife lie 2 cm from his left foot.

"John, are you alright?" he asks, concerned. When he steps closer to place his hand on his shoulder to reassure him, John takes a step back, blinks, looks quite serious. "What is it?" His hand is still on John's shoulder.

"I'm fine." John licks his lips, regains his composure. "I'm happy to hear you speak!" His eyes smile as he looks at Sherlock's mouth. "And, yes, I cooked asparagus."

Sherlock turns his head to look at the pots. There is indeed asparagus in one of them.

"Why? You _know_ that I hate asparagus."

"Hmm, why indeed." Leaning his head back, John has closed his eyes briefly, his smile is bittersweet.

Sherlock frowns, lets go of John's shoulder. Something is not right. He is missing something, but does not know what.

"Excuse me." John bends down to pick up the cutting board and knife, places them in the sink. "What day is it, by the way?" he asks casually as he wipes up the spilled chives with a paper towel.

"Monday. Why?"

"What is the last thing you remember?" This is a giveaway question. John throws the paper towel in the trash bin.

"I went to investigate something for this boring case."

"Hmm,... and did you find out anything?"

Sherlock tries to remember, but draws a blank. "No," he shakes his head. "Strange. I went out while you were at work. Woke up on the couch, smelled the asparagus. I did hear you call me several times, though."

John nods his head, checks that all the elements are turned off, that the pots are covered with lids to keep their food warm.

"Right, I did. - Go look at yourself in the bathroom mirror," he suggests, making his way into the living room. He sits down in his armchair while Sherlock proceeds into the bathroom. By the stairs leading up to John's bedroom he notices a box containing a pillow and blanket. Was John sleeping on the couch?

Seeing 6-day old stubble, Sherlock exclaims, "What the...!?" He rubs at his facial hair with both hands, then briefly covers his eyes, before holding his hands together over his mouth, thinking. Obviously this amount of stubble took more than several hours to grow. Missing time, he cannot remember what happened! He assumes he got hurt somehow, possibly had a concussion.

John usually is very protective of him, likely will tell him off that he did not wait to take him along. Did he pee his pants? Drool? Make love declarations? Grimacing, he knows he will have to ask John to tell him what happened. In the living room, he decides to sit on the couch, so John won't be able to see his face directly.

He takes in John's posture: his hands are clasped in his lap, his right knee is over his left, toward the couch. Even though he looks slightly uncomfortable, this shouldn't go over too bad. He hopes.

"So,... apparently it's not Monday anymore. Sunday?"

"Impressive," John sighs, shaking his head, amazed.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock is aware that John is looking at him intently. He decides to turn more sideways, to face him.

John searches his eyes for a few moments, but remains quiet, eventually looks at the coffee table. Sherlock is puzzled why John does not tell him off, as he thinks he normally would. When John's phone pings, he picks it up to read the message.

"Your brother sends his kind regards. He is _very happy_ that you are speaking again."

John must have texted Mycroft while he was in the bathroom, now turns his phone off, lays it down on the floor beside his chair.

"You really don't remember anything from when you were investigating that case on Monday up until just recently?"

Sherlock tries again to remember, searches his mind palace. Aside from hearing John calling him, there is nothing. He shakes his head 'no'.

"I remember hearing you call my name. - Is there something I need to know?" he asks seeing John trying to keep his face neutral. Besides not being a good liar, he can be quite transparent.

"In the future, please try to take me along when you go investigate, even if you deem the case only a 4. We were very worried when you didn't come back and could not be located. I found you Wednesday afternoon lying on the bathroom floor, conscious. Because you did not speak I had you checked out at hospital. Apparently you had a concussion, a cut above your left ear, some bruising on your left side.

"Turns out you were _not fully_ conscious after all, though you followed instructions and did a lot of things on your own initiative even! With some verbal guidance from me you were able to take care of and feed yourself here. Because you remained verbally unresponsive, could not consent or object, I did not touch you in _any_ way that was not necessary."

"Why are you stressing that you kept your touching me to what was necessary?"

"What did your brother say in his text?" John asks instead of answering Sherlock's question.

"He sends his kind regards, is _very happy_ that I'm speaking again," Sherlock supplies without difficulty.

"Just checking that your memory forward is working now, thank you."

"In the kitchen, you stepped back when I touched your shoulder, as if you were afraid of me. Did something happen?" He does not want John to be afraid of him.

John shakes his head. "Don't worry, I made sure nothing _happened_. But we do need to talk."

"About what?" Sherlock raises his eyebrows.

"Us."

Sherlock blinks, feels his cheeks flush. Did he declare his love for John after all?

"Us?" He asks unnecessarily. It comes out a tiny bit squeaky.

John takes a deep sigh, looks at Sherlock.

"We are flatmates and colleagues. I _am_ your friend. Can I ask you something personal?"

Sherlock does not trust his voice right now, so only nods.

"I know after we first met, at Angelo's, you said you considered yourself married to your work and were not interested in any, I guess you meant relationship. I said I was not asking. - But I _am_ wondering, whether you are interested in a relationship with me _now_. Are you?"

Sherlock wonders what he did while he was not fully conscious and, as he has been given to understand, _not_ speaking, that is making John wonder about this now. He covers his face with one hand, rubs his forehead.

"Are you?" John asks again, softly.

Sherlock's heart has started to beat faster. He can feel blood pulse in the tips of his ears, worries his lower lip.

John scoots forward in his armchair, places his left hand on the armrest of the couch, palm up, offering it to Sherlock.

"It's okay, Sherlock. You can tell me." John's voice is quiet, soothing.

Sherlock looks at John's hand first, then at John. With his fingertips he gently touches and explores John's fingertips, but does not take his hand. Finally he nods.

"Yes."

ooo


	7. Sunday (part 3)

**Chapter 7: Sunday (part 3)**

 _Sunday (part 3):_

John watches Sherlock explore his fingertips, tries not to feel disappointed that he does not take his hand. Swallowing, he reminds himself that he only asked Sherlock whether he was interested in a relationship with him, not whether he wanted to begin one now.

"What do you want to do?" John asks.

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders.

"Are you hungry at all?"

Sherlock shakes his head, no.

"You have questions?" John asks.

Sherlock nods. "What about you? Are _you_ interested in a relationship with me?"

John stretches his fingers out a little more to reach farther under Sherlock's fingertips.

"I am," he says looking up at Sherlock's face.

Sherlock looks at John as well, sees the open honesty there. He places his hand further over John's palm, but doesn't grasp his hand yet.

John's heart is beginning to beat faster. Certainly Sherlock must feel the perspiration on his skin. He smiles, closes his eyes briefly, shakes his head. It will be best to hold still, let Sherlock take his time, figure things out for himself.

Sherlock clears his throat. "What prompted you to ask this now?"

"Your actions while not fully conscious gave me cause to wonder."

"Actions?"

"You moved my hand towards your morning erection, used my shoulder and lap as a pillow, this afternoon you pushed me against a tree during our walk... I could feel that you were hard."

At hearing "morning erection", Sherlock's eyes widen, he withdraws his hand, frowns.

Feeling the loss of contact with Sherlock, John kicks himself for mentioning such a private detail.

"You saw me naked?"

"Obviously you bathe nude, and apparently you also sleep naked, which I didn't know," John supplies.

Sherlock purses his lips.

"Would you rather have stayed at hospital?"

Sherlock immediately shakes his head, no.

"It's normal to have morning erections, Sherlock. Nothing to be embarrassed about. - Because you couldn't communicate I was not sure whether you were aware that you touched _me_ , whether it was a subconscious desire of yours, or you weren't even aware."

"I definitely was _not_ aware! I'm sorry for my inappropriate actions. - I pushed you against a tree?"

"Yes," John sighs. He has withdrawn his hand from the side of the couch, placed it on his thigh. "You pressed against me... But, you let me go right away when I told you to."

Trying to picture the scene, Sherlock shakes his head. Yes, he had wanted to be with John for quite a while now, but finds it hard to accept that he was not in control of his actions.

"Like I said, nothing happened." John smiles. "I don't hold it against you. That's why I am asking now that you are fully conscious."

"I woke up smelling asparagus. You did that on purpose." It's not a question.

"I was trying to get some reaction to it from you. Seems it worked!" John's smile widens, pleased with himself to have used this least-favorite vegetable.

Sherlock is starting to smile as well. "A wise choice. - Thank you for keeping me safe and respecting me, John."

"You're welcome. So..." John gathers his courage while they are on the topic. "Since you _are_ interested in a relationship with me, and _I_ am interested in a relationship with you, what shall we do?"

Sherlock looks at John again, nods. He places his hand on the side of the couch, palm up.

"Alright. I trust you. - John, will you be my boyfriend?" he asks with a tender smile.

John blinks, he was not prepared to hear those exact words now. Swallowing, he grasps Sherlock's hand.

"Yes," is all he can choke out, his heart beats with joy. "May I hug you?"

Wordlessly, Sherlock pulls John towards him.

"You can sit on my lap," he suggests, moving over a little to give John more room.

John does straddle Sherlock's lap, wraps his arms around him, their cheeks touch.

"I missed you," John says, his voice hoarse.

"I'm here," Sherlock reassures him. Feeling wetness against his skin, he tightens his embrace, presses soft kisses on John's ear and temple.

"Kiss?" Sherlock asks. His lips caress John's earlobe, cheek, inch closer to John's mouth...

Relieved, John nods. Kissing Sherlock feels like coming home, right.

This first kiss is special for both of them. For John, because it is the first time he kisses Sherlock, a man. For Sherlock, because it is the first time he kisses John. He had thought about it before, but, given the fact that John only went out with women, had thought it was not possible.

John had thought about it, too, but, given the fact that Sherlock had said he was married to his work and not giving any indication that he was interested in him like this, had thought it was not possible.

They are both getting breathless, and quite hard. John's jeans feel definitely too tight. He pulls back a little, his eyes twinkle with happiness.

"You're amazing! Do you want to keep kissing here, or..."

"Hmmm," Sherlock sighs, nipping at John's jaw. "Definitely more..." His mouth finds John's neck. "I want to explore you, know you,... mmmmh... John?"

"Right,... same here." Feeling a bit overwhelmed, John finds it hard to speak. "Your bedroom?"

Sherlock sighs before nodding. It takes effort to get them both off the couch and make their way there. They manage to discard their shirts, jeans, lounge pants, socks and pants along the way.

Standing naked in front of his bed, Sherlock admires John's erection.

"May I...?"

"Certainly! Whatever you want..."

Sherlock takes John to bed. ...

·

After the having-made-love-with-your-new-life-partner-for-the-first-time bliss has subsided, lying content in bed, on their sides looking at each other, tired, they marvel.

Sherlock's hand rests on John's cheek, his thumb is moving gently by John's ear.

"You're a miracle," he confesses, in awe.

John pulls him close, strokes the back of his head. "So are you! I'm serious."

 _Thank you, God, for letting Sherlock fully recover! Thank you, that we are partners!_

The truth is: neither of them really knew beforehand what they could have been missing.


End file.
